


Afflictions I-X

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Series: The Consolations of Philosophy [9]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: AU, Angst, Character Death, Depressing, Electroma, Experimental, Fluff, Food Porn, Human!Daft Punk, Light-Hearted, Literary References, M/M, NSFW, Robot!Daft Punk, Slash, Slice of Life, Unrelated chapters, introspective, oneshots, philosophical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every emotion and experience is an illness of life, if you think about it.<br/>That applies to all persons, human or not. Ten short DP stories dealing with said illnesses, whether good, bad, or inevitable. [Warnings/POVs vary with each story. Odd numbers human!DP, evens robot!DP.]</p>
<p><b><span class="u">CURRENT UPDATE:</span></b> <i>'II. Juvenilia'</i>, a posthumanist fairytale featuring robots, who come to inherit the Earth and the opposing forces governing it. Inspired by <a href="http://francoisehardy.tumblr.com/post/79199253897/so-i-drew-guy-and-thomas-as-the-prince-of-the-sun">francoisehardy's art</a> of Thomas and Guy (which you should totally check out). More notes inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Nos·tal·gi·a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Dedicated to the only person who I let read (parts of) this.  
> **  
>  Always an inspiration.

**Afflictions I-X - _I. Nos·tal·gi·a_**

\------------------

Who is this figure, smiling out at me from polaroid prison?  
Why, you.

When you moved in with me you brought a chunk of your previous life with you. It seems rich for me to say that, but by _previous life_ I don't mean anything half as grand or supernatural as what it might have sounded like. I don't even mean the period of your life where we didn't know each other, or weren't together, because that time has been mercifully short. I rather mean something much simpler than that; the mental divide of my life I categorize between your living in the same place as I am, and the time when you did not. It's purely a _locative_ distinction. When it was possible for us to sleep over at each other's houses as teenagers, or share clandestine kisses and stolen naps in rooms that belonged to only _one_ of us later on in life - ah, those were the days.

Still, considering what I have now, I can't say I would have preferred the past better. It's just as well that life has moved on, and you are safely mine here and forever. It took us a long time to get to where we are: from the beginning with the houses of our families, to our individual apartments, to me settling in your place (but not taking very much with me), to me venturing out and finding somewhere different altogether, and finally inviting you to come share your everything with my own. The linear progression of it even now gives me a sense of wonder. And as I said before - when you moved in with me, you brought the most important parts of your previous life with you and kept them in your room, all well-sorted for the times when I want to sneak in and immerse myself in them. Through them I can visit the past, almost any time I like. I see no problem with this arrangement.  
Some of it's in your bottom-most drawer, small childhood mementos. I'm not near it now, but I can recall what's in it: some marbles, beginner's German books, a small crucifix on a thin golden chain, empty notebooks you collected for the sake of it, a surprisingly well-kept avocado seed carved into a spiral pendant, pins and small keepsakes from museums and places you visited, cassette tapes that not even you know the contents of, your first (empty) bottle of cologne given as a twelfth-Christmas present, and a deck of worn cards that you can win almost any game with. (I know what happens with those; you know every bump and tatter on the edges of those cards, and what's more, you can actually _hear_ how they shuffle together and guess what a certain combination off the top of the deck would be. Ingenious trickster!) You have some old books, too, stacked in amongst others in the bookshelf against that wall. (It's always interesting thumbing through them and seeing the comments you scribbled in the margins, your razor-sharp wit having carried over the decades.)

Today, though, my interest lies in those photo albums that you keep laid facedown beneath the desk. One of mine's in amongst them, which is what drew me towards them in the first place; it's charming, very flattering certainly, that you take an interest in my childhood as well. It makes me feel less anxious about being in here without your express permission. I pick out two albums at random from the pile, mine included, and look around to find a comfortable spot to sit or lie down on. Your bed comes into view; it's as good a place to relax as any. I roll over comfortably, smiling at the scent of you embedded so deep in those sheets and those pillows of yours - mmh, hold on, set the albums aside for now. I'm obliged to appreciate this fully.

...

_Ahh._

For a moment I am like a boy again, nuzzling lazily into sheets and coverings new to myself, familiarizing my body to them. Back then, 'new to myself' meant exactly that, _sheets that weren't there before_ , whether freshly washed and smelling of lavender-and-mint or completely new. At my age and in this particular moment, though, it means _sheets that belong to you, rather than to me_. We don't have a master bedroom, so every night it's either been curling up together in one bed and leaving the other empty, or sleeping separately whilst nursing a quiet, fond longing. We haven't shared your bed in a few days, so it smells richly of you only: wine tannin, fresh caramel cream piped into early-morning eclairs, dusty petrichor rising from a rose garden.

Time has darkened your scent. It has mellowed mine. But yours is powerful, overwhelming but sweet in the way buckwheat honey is to the tongue; almost too strong in one go, but eternally enchanting when exposed gradually or in residue. It is sometimes hard for me to think around you when we embrace and lie together - I confess that I find myself reverting to the primal version of myself during those times, thinking of nothing but that base desire to touch, taste, and smell more, you becoming the only singularity that I want to acknowledge in my life. Now, though? Right now I'm not quite as urgent.

Pick up a pillow and hug it close to my chest, burying my face in it for a moment. Place it back.  
Lie on my side, nuzzling my cheek softly against your sheets, imagining you doing the same to me when you return. I'm not sure what kind of mood you'll be in tonight, but hopefully it'll be a good one, and now that I've been here, I like to think that you'll fall asleep surrounded by my scent and dreaming of me. Fragrance is what we can leave behind even when our bodies are elsewhere. It survives in air, lays itself in fabric and any even remotely porous surface, it even serves as the trigger of memories. Wondrous phenomenon, truly, alongside its visual counterpart - the humble _photograph_. And now we are back where we begun, and where we must continue. I reach for the albums again.

You were a quiet child. That much I can tell, looking through the first album. And I've just found the one I was looking at earlier - it's a lovely picture, one that I find myself peering at quite often. I know its place off by heart. Slipping it out of its transparent pocket, I lean in close and brush over its glossy surface (just gently) with my finger.

You are five years old, treacle-coloured hair already beginning to grow long. In the other contemporaries of this one picture, you're, well, _pensive_ would be the best word to put it. Eyes dark from the lighting, never refusing to lend your gaze to the lens and yet never immersed in it, far away in your own thoughts. But this one photo is such a vivid exception: you're on a swing, your usually well-brushed hair tangled from the wind, pink-cheeked and laughing without a single care in the world. Your hands, closed softly around the ropes of the swing; your feet, just about to kick off from the ground; the sun dappling your face quite bright.

I never knew you like this in real life. It's a startling observation to make, every time, despite it being fairly obvious.

Around this time, my parents were sitting around and making plans to give me piano lessons later on, and we didn't have a swing in _our_ garden, that's for sure. Pink Floyd would release 'The Wall' in the few months to follow, one of the seminal albums to bring us together. Jean-Paul Sartre was still alive and in Paris, albeit blind, with less than a year left in his life. Had we met then, I think we'd still have gotten along quite well; as for love, we might have come together sooner or later than we did in reality, or not at all. I don't know. _That's_ less of a constant in my mind than the simple togetherness of ourselves, if I may be so honest. But to get back on topic, I talk about this because even though I didn't actually know anything about you during this time, I find myself strangely _homesick_ for what I never even experienced. (And it's not just because of the swing, as fine a contraption as it looks.) I would have liked to share in your delight that day, to laugh with you, to play together in that entirely innocent sense we once had.

You're very cute, you know. You'd blush and shrug it off if I held up this picture and said that directly to you. There's always something raw and a little embarrassing about revealing your childhood self to others; I do understand, that fear of showing just how much you didn't know. But what can I say? _Non,_ Guy, that's not an excuse for me to deny you that truth, that you were (and _are_ ) very cute. Smiling, I set that photo to the side and flick through the pages of the photo album again. Five years old, then six, then seven, a whole twenty-page spread of holiday pictures - from this point on you are officially a schoolboy...

... and here it is, this photo that I haven't seen in years.

It's a professionally taken photograph, a plain background with only you to look at. We'd only just met around this time, though we hadn't progressed further than sitting next to each other in lessons and the occasional visiting of each others' houses. As a result I don't know why this photo was taken and I don't think you ever told me the occasion. It's too big to be a passport photo, it wasn't for school, and the date handwritten at the back of the photo isn't one that I'd recognize. Perhaps there was no occasion after all. You are more obviously thoughtful here, to the extent that you aren't actually even looking towards the lens. Your eyes are focused elsewhere, intense but looking off to the side: sapphire glint, sharp, wary like the wings of a magpie poised for flight. Considering that you can't be more than twelve or thirteen years old, it's startling to look back at this and see how different, almost _too adult_ , you used to be. (Keep in mind that by 'too adult', my darling, I refer to less of you personally as an adult and more my own vision of how an adult perceives life. In actuality you grew up to be far more relaxed than this. Almost sleepy-looking at times, even, that biting sharpness emerging only when it is warranted.) Not only did you look the part, you acted it too - or at least, did so in the best way that you could, in adult rooms with the hesitant sense of not belonging quite.

I'm glad you didn't keep up with the overt formality, if I'm honest. Like the brief period of - six months? seven? I forget - where your slow-proceeding existential confusion fixed upon your name. For a while you couldn't decide how you wanted to be referred to, having two proper names and several variations on them to choose from. An entirely understandable conundrum. Someone would say hello to you, a stranger, teacher or a classmate, and they would generally address you with an informal version of your name. 'Guy-Manuel', 'Guy-Man', simple and plain 'Guy', 'Guillaume', 'Emmanuel', 'Manuel' (in three elegant syllables) for those who figured out your Portuguese origins, and even 'Emile' at one point.

_Guillaume_ , you'd always insist in response. _Call me Guillaume, that is my name. The half that I like, anyway._ You still prefer that one, and I can entirely understand why. 'Emmanuel' is a perfectly respectable name, but it's not quite you. That's how you've remained here in this photo, as long-haired, brooding, overly introspective _Guillaume_.

Ironically, the main reason that I remember this period so clearly is because I was the only person whom you did _not_ involve in this process. For me it was 'Guy-Manuel' or 'Guy' all the way from the beginning, with the occasional 'Guillaume Emmanuel' in times of severity, and... and you always _let it go_ , no matter which name I used. I still don't know your rationale for this, though I'm sure I did ask you about it at some point. So much time has passed since then that I might never know. I tell you this, though. I'm entirely sure that this period is what cemented the notion of myself being _special_ to you deep inside my heart. You - this you specifically, the one in this photo - you made me, at least temporarily, a very happy narcissist indeed. And I wouldn't dismiss it as a temporary thing that quickly, either; I mean, I did turn out to be right in the end. You are special to me and I am special to you and I'm long past the point of questioning that statement. (My concern lies with maintaining that status quo, not confirming it.) When we were teenagers, though, that notion came back to bite me a few times as changing surroundings and slow-rising adolescent emotions made me feel _threatened_ in my position, first and foremost. Those times made for valuable experience, but they weren't very pleasant.

I could never bear the thought of not meaning more to you than anybody else. Childish, I know.

Speaking of adolescent emotions - is there a photo illustrating that? Here, that one will do.  
This photograph was taken by me, so it's in _my_ album, slotted into the penultimate page. I remember that I sneaked this picture on a school trip; where exactly to, that's what I don't remember, but it's been years since and I don't think that ultimately matters. The only thing that mattered followed me in our mutual journey through time, and that's mostly all I care about. I remember back then, that I'd been immensely glad that I'd recently received a new camera, one that didn't make so much noise - and who better to test it out on than you, asleep then next to me with your jacket folded on your lap, your chin supported on your palm and your right elbow leaning coyly into the window of the train? The composition was real and perfect, you were still enough to transfer to film from actuality with no trouble, it was too good an opportunity.

I lift up the photo. Close my eyes. The ink has long since dried and the photo shows its age, if I turn it over I will see it yellowed vaguely around the corners; but I breathe in and somehow I can _revisit us,_ Guy, just like that, I can revisit us during that short precious moment:  
Myself, freshly sixteen, one foot over the line of legality and adulthood.  
You, even-more-freshly seventeen, coaxing the rest of me over that boundary and not even knowing it.  
The side of your forehead was pressed into the glass, your hair (fine, dark, a couple of strands split at the ends) falling across your face, and I remember you being so still as you slept that it'd almost felt as if you'd been frozen in polaroid before I ever got to you. The tracks were fading into the distance outside.  
I can remember my breathing. I don't remember yours. You were that quiet.  
You were dreaming of me perhaps, or some other afterschool Romeo/Juliet who came before me in their rightful order of succession.  
Your mouth was closed, straight-lined but not severe. I thought back then with some odd pride that my lips were prettier, but our faces, they've changed with age since and now I think that yours are better-looking. Slightly defiant. Broad. Slow-smirking or firmly shut, but occasionally parting in so irresistible a manner that I can't stop myself from claiming them. Even back then I wanted to kiss them. I remember leaning over you with the camera and just staring for a good long time wondering what kissing you would be like, not knowing that not very long afterwards I actually would, knowing even less that those lips of yours would eventually do far more to me than just kissing. But eventually all I did was to raise the camera proper, seeing you in miniature through the viewfinder - just before the deed, I took a deep breath - and _there_ you were, taking up a particularly precious slot of film, ready to fall into my hands and be treasured for eternity. Some moments deserve to go on for ever and ever.

These were the days when you couldn't check how good your photos were until they were processed. You had to be careful with film.  
I didn't even have second thoughts about that photo. I knew that it would turn out perfect.

I roll onto my back, carefully pushing all the albums aside. Hold up the photo against the sun. In the light your face has the pale luminescence of an angel. A fair youth, you are, in that nervous, precipitous way only teenagers can be; looking at you makes me smile, and even in at my age, rather _attracted._ I don't know whether it's because we've been together for so long, or whether it's your inherent, ageless charm, but I know this much: If I looked up now and came face to face with the seventeen-year old you, and if I weren't your lover already, I'd definitely be tempted to ask you out on a coffee date. Imagine that!

(No more than that, of course. I'm not _that_ kind of person.)

But in a way, Guy, this picture, it _deceives_.  
You are no angel, and neither am I. We prize our youth so much precisely because we failed to keep hold of it. Don't get me wrong, there is something everlasting about _how_ you manage to be exquisite despite each passing year and changing perceptions, but that's not maintaining the _same exact_ beauty regardless of age. You as I know now aren't beautiful _like this_ , no more than I am like the boy I used to be. Certainly those photos are admirable face-objects, and they are captured in such a way that causes in me the wistful desire for home - that feeling, you can only say what it is in Greek! - but they are mere representations of your face. _Objects_ , as I said.

Here, let me return this photo to the light. This is what I mean. Your face has the snowy smoothness of a mask, dark features at once fragile and standing out bold-dark against the pale. Compact. Unchanging. There is an unusual, yet undoubtedly _even_ distribution of all the sexes in your face, lending it a fascinating sexual _undefinedness_ which is precisely what gives it the potential of an ideal. But as perfect as it is, there is something highly uncanny about it, and I _don't_ get this feeling when you are next to me, warm and breathing. This despite you having carried that same distant/snowy/solitary face for all this time. A photo exchanges a dimension in return for eternity, the essence of the subject evaporating into air the moment the shutter clicks; that's probably why I never feel quite the same looking at you in photographs. Those were not meant to have a reality beyond perfection ironed flat, but I keep imagining others.

Contrast me, if I may. I have differed myself more than you have in my photos, look at all of those different expressions! - my parents did not shy away from preserving even my darkest moments. I resented them for it at the time, but now they are valuable frames of reference. I haven't remained as _constant_ as you have, if you'd allow me unlimited usage of that word for the time being. You can very clearly see me aging throughout those photographs, with every expression you can guess the context of each photo and what experiences must have come before it. Take the essence out of past-myself, and what I have here, lying quiet and still in their plastic wallets, are a series of _stills_ as if from a film. I am a narrative, not one frame of me captures me in full.

I am a series of Events. You are a single Idea. There is the difference.

But at the same time - what a travesty it is, to think that something as infinitely complex as a _human being_ can be boiled down in such a way! A human being should ideally only ever be reducible to one kind of idea, and that is of the human being itself. Endless tautology is what is desired. Your photos tempt me with a false alternative, and that is how they deceive.

Guy, this other is not you.  
I cannot go through your photographs and hope to find you in it. That sounds contradictory, but it's true; that's not an expectation that I ought to have with any picture of you at any point in your life. If anything, consulting those actually makes it _harder_ for me to recall you as you are, compared to simply closing my eyes and daydreaming of you. My imagination can run wild, so can my memories with any vividity that I desire. With a photo, I am suddenly locked in a framework, a reference of what your features look like on paper that I am forced to keep to, confining me to one specific idea of what you used to be like that taints every thought that comes after it. I cannot even say that I _love_ those photographs of you. I sit down to contemplate the past-you in them, but I cannot engulf myself in them nor believe that you really reside in them; _mon Dieu_ , I can _pick you up_ and _sort you into a fixed order_ with my hands! Pardon me for pointing out the obvious, but that isn't meant to be a possible thing to do with a real person. If I were ever to show those to friends who nevertheless haven't had the kind of exposure that I've had from you, or to complete strangers, I doubt those photographs could speak for themselves.

And that's with me, your best friend/lover/lifelong companion - when even _I'm_ so unsure of what you are thinking during the best of times, I can't imagine what it'd be like for those who don't know you at all! What of the people who have only ever seen you in photographs, the occasional videos, or have only heard a fixed impression of your voice? They know nothing of how you are, only able to build up incorrect ideals of what they think you must be like. Confronted with a certain photograph, with no other reality to refer to, they nod and accept that as a truth. But for me, those images are partially true (because I can refer to external context) and therefore totally false; it's far more distressing to say of a photograph that 'that is _almost_ the way they were' rather than 'that isn't the way they were at all'. How is it that no one else can see how disturbing this is? Yes, they are beautiful photographs, and yes, they capture some notion of truth, even if the story behind them might have become lost over time. A photograph is not a sketch nor a painting, it never begins as a purely-fictional discourse. To build up love for Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo, who has been represented in two-dimensional media, therefore has _some_ validity to it. I don't deny that.

...

But I don't love pictures. I love _you_.

That claim, referring to you in all dimensions and time periods, is far harder to justify for most people.

...

Just thinking about all of this makes me anxious. I push the albums and the three photos off to the side, I suddenly don't feel so good; a pendant from you sits around my neck and I grasp it, slowly and worryingly inching my thumb over the grooves. I do that sometimes and it helps me calm down, thinking of the counterpart of this priceless jewel, that one I bought for you, bouncing lightly against your collarbone whenever you hurry off to whatever appointment that awaits. Slack on my neck, your rope.

I stand by all I said. The truth is uncomfortable more often than not, that's all; your youth _does_ captivate me. Or more accurately speaking, they make me miss the good times that have passed us by, precisely because they aren't coming back. Reality or not, it's simply an attractive idea, being able to revisit those incidents in full - the pictures of you tempt me, sometimes to the extent of thinking that the past was _better,_ somehow. And oftentimes I have wondered whether it would be worth it, should something like a time machine exist, that I travel back to and re-live those moments again. The thought of being playmates with you, or working up the courage to ask you out before full-on adulthood, or even having the exact same sleepover/trip/party/etc... as long as it was with you, well. I wouldn't protest that. I'd love it, even.

But I just spent all this time figuring out how past you, as seen in those photographs, always end up as - well - _not_ you. An outsider. Not even I'm immune to the trap that I myself pointed out.  
Oh, Guy, come home. This bed's too big!

...

My phone rings from the other room. There's only one person who'd be calling me at this hour, but I'm startled nonetheless, flinching and staying absolutely still to determine whether it actually rang or if I was imagining things. The second time makes it absurdly clear that I wasn't, and I hurtle out of bed to go and get it, not wanting to miss your call for the world. One anxiety to another! "... _Âllo?_ "

"Are you touching your pendant?" your voice (deep, cappuccino smooth, sotto voce) asks from the other end, and I relax, at the same time marveling at how you knew. (I don't inquire.) "you sound nervous, somehow. Did something happen?"

"A hello back would have been nice," I tease, following it up with a happy sigh. "nothing happened. I'm waiting for something _to_ happen, rather. How did it go?"

You went to meet Eric today. I think you mentioned going to a bistro for lunch, or a cafe, I can't remember which. "He's just gone to pay the bill," is your reply, entirely truthful but not really answering my question; you're cryptic like that. "and it went well, thanks for asking. Nothing special or new, just catching up on how we've been... we did intend to talk about work, but we got sidetracked several hours ago... started complaining about that bistro and it all kind of went downhill from there. You remember that place, Thom? _Le Baratin?_ "

I do. Haven't been for a long time, but it was a nice place. "Mm. What about it?"

"It's closed. Might as well be, anyway, for a long time. New management."

" _Merde._ Since when?"

"No idea, and we didn't stick around to find out, either. We just went to this cafe nearby, and it was all right... didn't eat anything, though. Eric had a slice of cake. And that's the other thing; I'm starving, though I can only say that because he's not here."

I hold back a wry chuckle. "Fair enough. I'll come pick you up - when do want me to come, what do you want for dinner?"

I don't think I can understate how important a question this is. _What do you want for dinner?_  
The first time you came over to my house, I asked this almost as soon as we'd taken our shoes off. I actually couldn't cook anything as a twelve year old, and even then it was of the utmost importance to me that I knew what you wanted for dinner. Eating together is one of the most intimate things I could share with anybody; when you're exhausted, melancholy, content or ecstatic, I can figure it out from the tone of your voice and what you ask to eat without even seeing you. We both can, we even have a scale for it. When I'm particularly happy, you know that I have a craving for cold-smoked salmon, hearty slices of it served with scrambled egg and sourdough bread. Lightly toasted, and I prefer the crusty ends, something which you think I'm rather odd for. In the worst of times, I know that you prefer to have an early night, book in hand, my body keeping you warm, cream-filled coffee and three freshly baked madeleines on a plate on the bedside table. There always has to be three, though what you put on them varies a great deal. So tell me - what do you want to eat tonight, Guy, and how're you feeling while we're at it?

"... I was thinking maybe we could have a _light dinner_ tonight."

... Or that. _That's_ an option, too. I lean forwards, even more interested in what you've got to say. "I'm listening."

Your voice is gentle and at ease, but at the same time extremely _cautious_ , as you continue. It's almost as if you haven't heard me interject at all, and are talking to yourself, rather than to me. (I have always liked that about you. You talk out loud as if you were reciting poetry.) "Something simple. _Calzone._ There's some mozzarella in the fridge that needs eating soon. With red onions and a small salad on the side, no dressing, just a dash of olive oil. _Oui._ That's what I'd like. And I'd have seen Eric off in half an hour or so."

None of this is particularly new, but I make a note of it anyway. "Calzone, it is. We'll fill up with the usual dessert?"

"Mm-hmm. There's enough wine? Biscotti? And the...?"

Yes, yes, and I think so. I don't say that aloud.  
I ought to check. I take care of the last part by leaning across, phone held close to my ear, and tugging the second drawer open so you may hear. When I see what's inside, I chuckle, satisfied. Plenty of protection, and plenty of tastes to apply _to_ them, just the way it's been for the past few years. That's the actual dessert portion of our meal; the wine and biscotti are there to whet our appetite in small sips and bites, and if we're in the mood, to playfully feed each other with. You accept that laugh as my answer, and over the line I can imagine you smiling in turn. "... I look forward to it, Thom."

When you are in the mood for love you are very practical. You _plan_ it, you have a _routine_ , and that might sound dull to some - some people prefer spontaneous passion, and there's nothing wrong with that. But ah, there's very little that turns me on more than you falling silent for a few seconds, prelude to your coy invitation, before telling me that you'd prefer a light dinner. Those requests begin the same way every time, and that means that we can speak in _code,_ our exact demands for the night hidden in plain view:

  * Light dinners, so we won't be too full to move, but so that we'd still have enough stamina between us.
  * Wine to warm our bodies. Yours, especially, that alcohol-induced rosy blush spreading luxuriously over your skin.
  * Biscotti, when kisses are especially desired. We play a game with those, biting into each end of the biscotti and working our way towards the other.
  * _Crème bavaroise_ if we want to be licked instead; this is _my_ specialty, you've always said I look cute when I'm licking my spoon clean.
  * Espresso and baked _käsekuchen_ , for the special occasions when we don't intend our partners to sleep at all. Again, I ask this slightly more often.
  * No dessert at all is part of this code, too, surprisingly enough. This is uniquely _your_ demand, and always comes with the request for us to cook dinner _together_ , regardless of what exactly it might be. You enforce a gap in the routine, and fill it up again with your presence only.



That's my favourite request, the last one. Instead of food, you offer yourself to sate my hunger, and what a feast you are! Your kisses so full, spicy and inviting, the skin on the inside of your elbows and the back of your neck as soft as a peach, your nipples sweet like cherries dipped in cream under my tongue, and all of this is but a tiny selection from the whole. I could go on like this for hours. 'No dessert' is an invitation for me to dive deep inside you, the raw delicious heat of you enveloping me all around, tightening and embracing me until I come.  
My body an anchor in your sea. Our warmths mingling. All night I bury myself inside you, I lie next to you and I burn.

"So do I, Guy. Do you want a bath before dinner, or after?"

I tell you, Guy, if those simple demands of ours _aren't_ secretive and romantic, I don't know what is.

"Just after, if you wouldn't mind, _s'il-te plait._ Let it fill up while we're eating."

Translation: _I'd like both of us to be clean before we go to bed._ I smile.  
Dinner, a nice long soak in the tub together, followed by the touch of your nails digging lightly into my back. Sounds good to me.

(Sometimes you want one by yourself _before_ dinner. That's for the times when you wish to be utterly spoilt, having me lick and kiss all over you as soon as you step out of the bath. Dinner wouldn't even be done; it'll be cooking away in the oven, and I'd be listening out for the timer while I please you with my lips and fingers, the slight dread of being interrupted by it intensifying my efforts. Thanks to that, we've never once had to stop before the timer went off.)

"... _D'accord._ I'll be waiting for you outside around ten past six."

(And sometimes you want _me_ to have one before dinner. The same happens, except with me receiving. After dinner, we carry on as per usual; sometimes we shower together and explore each other a little further, and sometimes only one of us will shower off so we can go to sleep together, equally clean and satisfied.)

"Mn. Sure. Water the lettuce before you go anywhere."

I stifle a laugh behind my hand. That is a very _you_ thing to say. I'm well-qualified to judge.

"I will, Guy. Anything else you'd like me to pick up on the way?"

You let out a soft 'hmm', considering. "Coffee beans. Grenadine. Me, when you're here, right off the ground."

"Roger that. And all the way back to the car, then up the garden path when we come home, in full view of the neighbours. I'm sure they'll love _that_ ," this is followed by a few playful protests from your end and I grin. "but never as much as I love you! _À_ _bient_ _ô_ _t."_

" _Je t'aime, Thomas, tsch_ _ü_ _ss_."

A click sounds from the other end as you hang up, nice and brisk. Only then do I allow myself my happy sigh, the phone still pressed to my ear. _Tsch_ _ü_ _ss_. 'Goodbye', 'or 'see you later'. I was never much of a German speaker, that's always been your field. Nevertheless I remember enough of it that I can marvel over certain word choices of yours, and this is one of those times. _Tsch_ _ü_ _ss_ (to me) is a perfect word because it _sounds_ like what it means, an affectionate farewell and verbal _kiss_ , a breath exhaled quick and sharp against the teeth before softened with the tongue, heightening my anticipation for the real deal.

Your lips, Guy, I swear they are otherworldly; they cast such a spell on me.

...

I glance at the clock. There's just enough time to water the lettuce, as you asked. There isn't much time to lose, so I put on my garden sandals and head outside into the garden, filling up the watering can and tilting it to release the cool sprinkle of water. While I'm at it, I cut free a head of lettuce to make salad with for later. Another day is dying, the almost-sunset outside painting the sky faint lavender. The breeze is cool and refreshing when I look up, breathing in deep, tasting winter on my tongue. Soon we'll have to cover the lettuce during nights, or else uproot them all to start again near springtime. I don't feel any particular emotion about what I just said; rather, time's passage engulfs me without tumult ensuing, nor any pathos. I dissolve in that realization - I fall, I flow, I melt - and that's all. Many things fade in winter, but it's an excuse for you and I to retreat to the warmth of our home together, and besides many of those same things will revive again come spring. That's just what _gentleness_ is. The task finished, I come back in, lock the back door, and return to your room to tidy what I've left behind.

The imprint of my body is clear on your sheets. I know you don't object, but for cleanliness' sake I smooth out the covers.  
Your pillows are plumped again, both of them. The albums are all opened, one by one, and the photos took out replaced in them.

Back to reality then I go. You are older now and so am I, comfortably inching into middle age. The days of our perfection are long gone; such a thing only exists in our heads, or in ink and paper. Those three perfect moments of yours will never come back. Even though I like to think that I have captured and given those countless versions of you a good home (in my head/in the handsomest albums/in lockets/in the prettiest frames), all they are, in the end, is _imprisoned_. A picture of you can never leave me, but then you can never leave it, either. You cannot _progress_ in them. The child you, laughing with wind in your hair as you sat on that swing, never saw you grow up to be an intensely-contemplative youth; that very same youth in this photo never saw you becoming suave and attractive, your body taking on that uncertain-but-loving shape that I to this day cannot resist. You on the train never opened your eyes to meet mine, either, and never will. In this photo you are a forever-sleeping beauty, forever waiting, unaware of the fact that outside of your frame, our lives have been woven together most beautifully like a tapestry. As much as I love looking at you in those long-gone moments, and as much as I think it'd be nice to go back to those times hand-in-hand with you, in the end they are merely _thoughts_. The reality I have with you now is infinitely more precious than that.

Close the albums. Clutch them to my chest for a few seconds, pat over them one more time, and stand.

One day, this too shall pass.  
One day we will look back on this day, too, as a curiosity.  
One day we'll want to go back to being forty and re-live what that was like. There is nothing I can do to take that melancholy sweetness out of reminiscence altogether. But I _can_ make sure that we live every moment as fully as possible, so that we leave them not having wanted for any more, and don't end up thinking of futile what-could-have-beens quite as much in the future, as if by acting differently we could have had reached some impossible ideal. And what _living fully_ means for me, Guy, is to accept the situation we're in for what it is before doing anything else. To not dwell too long on the past. To think of progress. (I'll teach you differences!) We must always aspire to be better, but you can't get better at something unless that something's already firmly in your grasp.

Memories cannot be grasped at. Being able to hold a photo is a mere illusion. Best not to center my thoughts on them, during those times when my utterances took the form of: _I love you, Guy, because insert-reason-here_ (said reasons becoming simpler or more elaborate depending on the situation). I like to think that I've always been honest, but it's only been very recently that I could reach out, touch the _very bottom_ of that justification - and have you accept it for what it is.

I adore you, because you are adorable. I love you, because I love you.  
That is the endpoint of our love, and much to our mutual delight we found its overall construction to be a perfect _circle_ , not a line fading helplessly away into the distance. Half our lives spent on closing off this lover's language of ours, ending its logical operation where we began: _fascination_ , or _enchantment,_ depending on how inclined one is to believe in the inexplicable. From this point on, starting over again and again - ah, the sheer amount of love that we'll be lost in, Guy, can you imagine it? Tautologies such as the above repeat endlessly like a broken record, and it is within that repetition I seek affirmation, as we can go no further. It is only you in the present, the one who will be emerging into winter in approximately twenty-six minutes and right into my arms, who can engage me in a conversational loop as simple as: _I love you, Thomas, tu m'aimes?_

To that I can only cry: _yes, yes, a thousand times yes!_ _Et tu, Guy, do you love me?_ And isn't that the most marvelous thing?  
This is why I am so much more content _now_ than I ever used to be. I replace the albums where they're meant to be and leave.

Goodbye for now. Goodbye, then, until there's occasion to reminiscence again, my child.  
My Guillaume, my fair youth, I know your charms. I'll not stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha. The Barthes is strong in this one.
> 
> A note about the collection itself, then the main piece. Afflictions I-X is an experimental collection that I decided to begin in an attempt to stabilize my mood. Every piece is unrelated and deals with wildly-different topics, united only by the general theme of _sickness;_ not even that is reliable, as this piece might have shown. Every chapter will likely interpret that word differently and end up with a variety of themes. So I can't speak for the general mood of the entire thing - it's not meant to be a unified whole. 
> 
> As for 'Nostalgia' itself.  
> It turned out deeper and surprisingly _not_ -depressing, so that's a fine start. It's not very original, though, I feel, because 'Camera Lucida' by Barthes was such a powerful influence. Something to improve for next time. You can read this piece as an _extremely_ distant finale to Wanderjahre, if you want, which is why this collection is included in the 'Little Kiss From Heaven' series as well. I made it so that all events tie together to that universe, though some choices I made regarding Guy's personality and Thomas's attitude towards him might be different and there is no reliance on 'magic' at all in 'Nostalgia'. It's up to you. As Wanderjahreverse hasn't even ended, it's not the most relevant piece even if you decide to read it as belonging to that world. 
> 
> Hoping the food porn was good for y'alls.


	2. II. Ju·ve·ni·li·a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Dedicated to[huggalittlefishy](http://huggalittlefishy.tumblr.com).**  
>  Didn't want to obscure anything with you, it's a bad habit.
> 
> You understand everything now. I hope that you'll see more than just everything, after some time has passed.

**Afflictions I-X - _II. Ju·ve·ni·li·a_ **

\------------------

Once there was a Creator, and he was one of the last remaining Creators of a long-since fading age. He wanted very little for himself save for some company, which proved scarce, so one day he rolled up his sleeves and set to work. While other Creators of his age were concerned with more immediate, desperate pleasures - food, toys, luxury - he was different in that he thought of the years ahead. He was not yet old, but he knew well that he wouldn’t have _forever_ on this earth. So he dove headfirst into an immense task, setting out perhaps the noblest project a Creator of his kind had ever conceived of; over a number of years he crafted two robots with his own two hands, the first of hopefully many to come, though by then he would not be involved in their development. He thought to regard them as heirs of a sort, and knew that they would come to herald a new world after this generation of Creators were gone. And this world would be a world with neither fear nor trembling, not a hint of suffering nor the sparkle of a tear.

Before long the Creator had made two mechanical bodies, with only minor differences between them to give them a _hint_ of personality. The bodies were dressed alike, but their heads were then adorned with different coloured helmets, one gold-plated and one covered with silver, signalling the tremendous significance of the future he hoped for them. And yet even then, that was only part of his gigantic task; now he had to awaken them and teach them all he knew, but not exactly as he knew it. One day he wanted them to go forth and seek out answers of their own, whether they contradicted his own or not, and whether the answers seemed to remain constant or not; their world would operate on truths different to his own, and he accepted that simple fact of life. He was remarkably forward-thinking in that way.

It wasn’t long, however, before his project hit a dead end. The Creator could do anything he wanted with the robots - almost anything, as far as his ability to program allowed him. He could make them walk, he could make them address him and each other, do complicated sums, keep sentinel over the house, and even sing the loveliest songs. But the one thing he desired the most for them he could simply not manage, and that was to truly awaken them, to gift them with hearts and souls of their own. Without those, the robots were only as good as simple machines, ones that did exactly what he told them to do and not a single thing more. And this wouldn’t do, not when they still had so much in store for them, not when they were entirely dependent on him to operate; how would they go about their own business, otherwise?

He tried for weeks on end and could not see an answer. In despair, he eventually fell into an exhausted sleep, and dreamt deeper than he had ever dreamt before.  
The Creator dreamt that he was floating in space, surrounded in silence and complete peace as next to him, supernovas erupted and stars blinked in and out of existence. He rather enjoyed this experience, and was dwelling in it for so long that he was most startled when out of nowhere a voice called him, stopping him right in his tracks.

 _You have brought forth two successors_ , the voice said, _but you have not been able to breathe the life that they so desperately need into them._

Perhaps others would have given this experience the name of a _miracle_ , or some kind of _intervention_ , but the Creator had no such thought in mind. He closed his eyes tightly and it was as if the _Universe itself_ was speaking to him.

 _Furthermore, you are worried about what they will make of it, what they will make of such things as day and night and good and evil, and how they will shape it according to their desires. You worry about what will come of their ventures, and the question of whether they would even be interested. Yet days and nights will exist without you,_ the voice carried on, _and without them, only that they may not understand those things in the same way as mankind has done._

“Yes,” the Creator answered.

_They are to begin a new world together. Where they are going, what mankind knows will not be enough.  
Let them become the servants of light and dark for a time, the two forces that govern this entire Universe and all life within it. First a light gleams in an instant, then it is night once more, and the same can be said of all living things; let the two of them understand for themselves what they must do. _

There was little else he could do but nod, so compelling was this voice and its promises. A soft breeze tickled past the Creator’s face, and rustled the silver robot’s jacket.

_This one lies on the left, the moon is his mistress.  
He shall be wise and want for very little, and he shall be blessed with all manner of left-handed luck._

The next breath of wind brushed against the gold robot’s sleeve.

_This one lies on the right; he serves the sun faithfully.  
All kinds of right-handed luck will follow him from now on, and all living beings shall love him true._

Then the voice faded away with a sweet, restful sigh. The Creator fell back into peace, and slept on without dreams until morning.

When he woke up, he knew that _something_ was irreversibly changed within himself and the two robots. They weren’t awake yet - they had never _truly_ been, anyway - but he had the acute feeling that they would once they were finished charging, and that when they did, they would treat him and each other very differently to before. All was as he had wanted. So it was about time that he gave them both a name and greeted them into existence.

He went downstairs and sat by the robots, lying serenely on the floor. The robot with the silver helmet he named _Thomas_ , that ancient name setting him as the standard by which both robots were to be considered. The robot with the gold helmet he named _Guillaume Emmanuel_ , both to pay homage to the visit he’d received in that dream, and to compensate for the robot’s shorter height. (But most of the time, he was simply called Guy.) Around three o'clock they awoke and bid him a very good afternoon before turning to each other, pleasantly inquiring about their names, and it was then the Creator knew that his wishes had come true. Surely now he had little else to want for; he thanked the lucky stars, then hurried to meet his now-living creations, eager to teach them about the world.

When Thomas and Guy were young, at first, the only way anyone could tell them apart was by their helmet and their heights. They insisted on wearing the same clothes and spoke alike in the same soft, curious voice. But when enough time had passed everyone knew the differences between them without ever having to look, and as the years went by they grew to contrast each other ever more, quite unlike what the Creator had first feared. For Guy looked at the world and loved it at first glance, laughing and singing in dulcet tones. Two or three years into his creation he attained the very height of gracefulness, moving smooth and dexterous around the place, and whenever he raised his head to the sky the sun glanced off his helmet and painted his surroundings quite golden. The large screen of his helmet, at first glance a dark featureless expanse, glowed often with smiles and other such bright expressions that paled not at all to any that the Creator (or those of his kind) was capable of.

Thomas, on the other hand, spent a great deal of time gazing ahead gravely and darkly. He spoke very little to begin with, and not once did he ever laugh, though he (ironically) had one straight line carved roughly where a mouth ought to have been; sometimes a tiny shadow crept onto its corners to give the impression of a smile, but it was an odd smile if anyone had seen it. Looking at it, it was almost like clouds obscuring the haze of the moon - taking away light, not giving it. Guy was undoubtedly easy to love, but Thomas inspired a sense of deep, respectful foreboding in all those who looked upon him, though he never once did anyone harm. Not even the Creator himself was exempt from this feeling. What the silver robot inspired was not quite fear, but rather a feeling akin to staring into the sinister darkness of open water, at once hiding nothing and absorbing everything into his abyssal gaze. No one ever felt as if they could hide from Thomas in good faith, and not one of them ever did.

“We’ve been blessed with a kind Creator,” Guy would sing sometimes, lying comfortable next to his partner. “his love for this world is vast, and yet the greatest of his love he saved for the two of us alone. We’ve been very fortunate.”

“But he has been deceptive,” Thomas would respond, though there was very little blame (if any) in his voice. “to love us properly, he first had to see us live. And for that he gave us away to the powers of light and darkness, before we could ever speak our thoughts on the matter.”

Guy’s fingers closed over Thomas’s, as soft as a dove. “We have each other,” he said.

“For a while,” Thomas sighed. “but nothing lasts for ever.”

There was much else about them that contrasted one another, and as the years went by their differences were only more highlighted than ever. Thomas was the first to develop a visible physical difference, in that he began doing things left-handed, despite the Creator never having programmed any such preference into either of the robots. Because he was in the end a Creator of an old and disappearing age, he regarded this as old Creators had done, and thought Thomas to be doing things _crookedly_ for it. It only added to his lingering belief that there was something _contrary_ about the silver robot, and whenever he looked at him he was reminded of the bargain he had made and that made him nervous. Aside from that, Guy’s lights became more vibrant than ever, beautiful technicolour complimenting the golden edges of his helmet whenever he was happy (and he was _always_ happy) and wanted to show it; Thomas on the other hand dimmed his displays until he was capable of showing only vivid red against his black visor, no light from the outside penetrating the depths of that glass. By their tenth year Thomas had grown silent and deeper in thought - he now only emerged at night, the pale luminescence of the stars reflecting cold and bright against his silver helmet. Guy, however, flitted in and out of the house like a small golden bird, bringing gifts of fruits, flowers, wildflower honey, and other such things that the Creator liked, brightening the house with every step and sung syllable he put forth into their surroundings.

“Why don’t you ever bring me presents?” the Creator asked one evening, seeing Thomas emerge into the garden for his nightly reverie; he followed the robot outside and glanced up at the falling dusk, before regarding the other with a reproachful eye. “I have spent the past decade teaching and guarding you both, but compared to Guy - you have grown ever so silent and sullen.”

“But I do have one gift to give. A song,” Thomas answered quietly. “it comes from the left-handed side of the world, from the deepest, darkest, recesses of night, and it is more beautiful than anything that one could imagine. The problem is that that is all I have, and I must keep it safe until the time is right.”

“It would be from you, and because of that I would treasure it gladly for the rest of my days. If you love me, Thomas, sing me your song.”

“It’s because I love you that I don’t want to sing it to you,” said Thomas. “no one should ask to hear it. It can only be heard in its entirety once, and after that, there will be no more songs ever again. Now is not the time.”

“Thomas,” the Creator said. “I made you out of nothing but what this earth had me to offer; I have taught and looked after you for all of those years; you owe me _something_. I would like you to sing me your song.”

Thomas downcast his silvery head.

“Very well,” he whispered. “but I do it against my will. ”

Standing there in the garden he sang his song. He had been correct; just the first few notes alone carried a terrible beauty that was nothing like what could be found in Guy’s songs, surpassing them with ease, and the Creator found himself quite transfixed where he stood. All around them the world seemed to tremble - the spring breeze came to a halt, the leaves reddened and fell silently to the ground, the flowers lowered their heads and dropped their petals like tears before wilting, and had the Creator not been able to move his hands to his ears in time, he too would have withered into nothingness.

That was the first time the Creator went lame. Thomas stopped his song before it was too late, but the damage had been done. They both sorrowed much for it and regretted that he had ever asked, though in his deepest lamentations the Creator found himself completely alone. If either of the robots could have wept for his plight they would have. But neither of them were able to do so, for after all, even before they had been the servants of the light and dark, they were heralds of a world without tears. Such drawbacks were only to be expected.  
The Creator, although he eventually regained his smiles and the will to a rich life, kept silent on the subject of gifts from then on, and it took a long time for him and Thomas to talk again.

Time passed. Neither of the robots changed much during those years, nor did they rust with age, even as their Creator grew older and feebler. One day he finally pushed aside the potted begonia that Guy had brought for him and declared that they no longer smelled sweet; not long afterwards, he began refusing to eat, complaining that the meals had no taste. But Guy kept on bringing over gifts of wild berries, honey and freshly baked goods, completely undeterred, and eventually the Creator became very sad and vexed indeed.

“Guy, why do you laugh and sing,” he complained, “when I am tired, old, and I am aching all over? I can scarcely see you any more, even in the best of days, let alone join you in song - they now hurt me more than they soothe.”

“There is little I can do about that,” was the gold robot’s gentle reply. “my craft is in laughter and song because you made me the servant of light; the eastbound sun would attest to that old bargain, and even now she is sovereign over me. All those hail from the right side of the world where gifts and music are never-ending. I am fully of that world and cannot weary of them. I have nothing else to give to you.”

The Creator was silent for a while. Then he sighed and asked: “Is Thomas there?”

“I have always been here,” answered Thomas. “sitting nearer than Guy ever has been, far nearer than you might have thought. And I can tell that you are now ready to receive the gift you asked of me all those years ago. I had one gift to give then, and I have one now; I have to finish my song. Sadly I can tell you little more of what awaits you after that, but be reassured. Guy and I will set out on our travels, servants no longer, but the rightful princes of light and darkness. Still, how strange a bargain it was, dear Creator, that you made to breathe life into us in the first place - Guy has never felt sorrow, and I have never known joy, whereas you and all who came before us were well aware of both things.”

“Forgive me,” said the Creator.

“Have no fear,” Guy added with a gentle laugh. “for we are here to dapple all who come after us with light and shadows both, instead of wholly one or the other. That balance will be restored again. Know that, dear Creator, and go in peace! - You are forgiven.”

“Forgiven,” echoed Thomas. Then he reached out to take the Creator’s hand in both of his own, cradling those frail-aged fingers in his soft silver, and finished his beautiful, terrible song as his final gift; at the end of it the Creator died quietly, smiling in peace, and for the first time in a long while Guy was quiet, too.

Afterwards, it was clear to the two robots what had to be done. It was the first time in the robots’ entire lives that they had been left all alone. Over two days they tidied the house and laid the Creator to rest; the bedsheets were folded and tucked back in the closet, the pots hung on their hooks against the wall, the vases of flowers washed and safely put away. When everything was done, they locked the door, placed the key under the welcome mat, and set off together down the road with their hands held tight, recounting all the memories they had shared together. Their many birthdays, the world they had both come to admire - albeit in different ways - and when they tired of talking, they walked in comfortable silence, the _click-click_ of their footsteps underscoring the last of their shared life’s melody. At last they came to a crossroads, where one road branched off into the west and one into the east; over the west the sun was beginning to set, while the moon (still a pale blue from daylight) was freshly rising at the east.

“Here we go our separate ways,” Guy said. “our songs and gifts were, in the end, meant to be shared with the whole world. It was about time that we entered into our true power.”

Thomas was in full agreement. “Indeed, we begin again here. Everything up until this point, including our time with our Creator - may he rest in peace - has only been preparation. But if only you could see what _I_ could see! Your helmet is gleaming in the light - why, Guy - you are quite, quite golden.”

“And yours is shining silver, as clear and pure as the Moon,” said Guy. “no doubt to become one with _her_ grace! Our long wait is now over. If I had the capacity for tears, or if I could be sorry, I would hold you in my arms and cry at having to leave you - but I can do neither. Ah, Thomas, it is not in my power to grieve.”

“Then we will part without grief,” said Thomas. “it’s only the right thing to do.”

“Yes, that we will,” Guy laughed; he waved a final farewell and walked on first along his path, where the air was sweetly woven-though with the scent of wildflowers forever in season. As he wandered down the path, the sun-painted road almost seemed to be forming a train behind him, clothing him in rich honey, vermilion and gold; before he was out of sight Thomas heard him beginning to sing once more, his voice a warm liquid trill as he vanished into day’s splendour.

“Nothing lasts for ever, not even sorrow,” said Thomas. “farewell, my dear friend, prince of the other realm - my Guillaume Emmanuel!”

Then he inclined his head in parting, and the shadows glanced around his helmet to form that small apparent smile once more, the one that absorbed light from the air and gave nothing back. The border of his realm marked, it was his time to begin as Guy had. Thomas turned to that falling dusk and heard the whispered greeting of the stars and planets above, addressing him as their prince and ruler henceforth; he knew then that he was welcome, that he had finally found where he was meant to be. Then in the star-speckled shadows he robed himself and walked resolutely on, further and further into the darkness, where he soon became part of eternal night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afflictions I-X does not run on a fixed or coherent schedule. I only ever update it whenever it feels like the _right thing_ to be doing, I think, and whenever I perceive a sense of _required completion_. The people I dedicate it to, the emotions, and the content of the stories within all being unrelated probably plays a part in it. Probably.
> 
> This one was meant to be number six... but the content itself came along before the structure wanted to settle. I think it was good that it happened. Despite being titled 'Juvenilia' there is nothing particularly _juvenile_ about it. It's a word that indicates the early efforts of an artist, and it takes the form of a honest-to-God _Märchen_ for a younger audience - but for me it was all backwards. I have never written a fairytale before. It was hard. I didn't even manage to quite get it to a desired reading level. I also believe what Tolkien's theory of the eucatastophe, too, I guess; there is nothing childish or simple about the language, morals, or the fantasy of fairytales. I am twenty-two years old; I have had to grow old and this fact has passed me by until now. Well, no more. 
> 
> Are there notes to add...? Probably only a comment on the naming of both robots.  
> 'Thomas' meaning 'twin', so that name is the metric by which to regard the two: polar-opposite twins. 'Guillaume Emmanuel' translating to something akin to 'Free will + God's presence', or 'God's will', which might explain that dreamy visit. I personally didn't see it as in any way religious, but it could be read that way.


End file.
